


A Strange Wedding

by lucifersfavoritechild



Series: Ironstrange Fics [23]
Category: Doctor Strange (2016), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Angst, Crack Treated Seriously, Crossover, Donna's alive because I said so, Family Drama, Fluff, M/M, brief themes of death abuse and drug use, mostly - Freeform, we'll see
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-25
Updated: 2020-06-07
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:47:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24378955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucifersfavoritechild/pseuds/lucifersfavoritechild
Summary: Sherlock's been invited to his uncle's wedding. His uncle just so happens to be Stephen Strange . . . and the man he's marrying is Tony Stark.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Tony Stark/Stephen Strange
Series: Ironstrange Fics [23]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1095672
Comments: 83
Kudos: 335
Collections: Numerous OTPS Infinite Fandoms





	1. Where Are You Headed?

**Author's Note:**

> Finally got around to giving life to [this terrible idea](https://salty-ironstrange-shipper.tumblr.com/post/190469060129/a-dinosaurs-left-phgkneecap).
> 
> Note that I'm still not sure how much of the backstory I've made up for this in my head is actually going to be included yet; if I go there, this fic could involve themes of death, suicide, emotional abuse, drug abuse, and probably more that I'm forgetting. This is a crackfic, but it's one I've put FAR too much thought into.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John meets Sherlock's uncle.

“We should leave soon," Sherlock said abruptly, typing on his (John's) laptop and not bothering to look up. "We have a plane to catch.”

John stopped, lowering his newspaper to look at his flatmate. “What? Where?”

“California.”

* * *

“—and thank you _again_ for only giving me five minutes to pack for a week and not telling me why we’re leaving, I’m so glad you appreciate our _friendship!_ ”

Sherlock wasn’t paying attention to him in the slightest, looking around at the airport with interest, taking in the tired passengers and people pulling their heavy luggage behind them, the irritated customer service workers with their painful smiles and security guards surveying the crowds. He took a moment to smile slightly before forging ahead. John sighed before following.

“Where are you headed?” an airport attendant asked when they went to check their luggage, looking at their tickets and ID, seeming no more interested in speaking to them than Sherlock was in answering her. John said, “The states,” before looking down at his phone. As such, Sherlock noticed the woman’s frown when he didn’t, saw the moment it changed to the slightest of _oh-crap_ expressions before she jerked her head up, smiling a bit too widely. “So sorry to keep you waiting, Mister Holmes, Mister Watson. Just one minute, and someone will be here to escort you to your jet and take your luggage.”

John looked up, confused. “Sorry? What?”

The worker was looking down at the computer in front of her, fingers moving at the speed of light. “It seems that everything’s ready. You just have to hand your bags off and walk right on.”

“Uhhh . . .” John was no less confused when two more attendants showed up, one strongly-built man taking their hastily-packed suitcases, and the other a tall, serene-looking woman who nudged them along with a quiet, “Right this way.”

John turned to his friend. “Are we going to die? Are they marching us to our death?” It wouldn’t be the weirdest thing that happened to them. That week.

Sherlock looked at him like _he_ was the odd one for questioning this. Christ, they weren’t even passing through security!

He paused when they were outside, staring at the jet before them and the large, black lettering painted on the side. “Stark Industries? Is this a private jet?”

Sherlock sighed. “Try to keep up, John.”

“Well, it might be helpful if you’d _told me what we were doing_.”

“Well, right now we’re boarding a private jet.”

The interior of the plane was as elegant as the words ‘private jet’ implied, with large white-leather seats, plenty of space to move around, and a _movie_ screen. As soon as they were seated, a flight attendant appeared from a door he hadn’t noticed, a young woman with dark hair and an almost stereotypical uniform. “Anything to drink? Or if you’re hungry, the chef can make you something.”

John was too busy thinking, _The chef?_ to answer. Sherlock, sitting across from him, just shook his head as he removed his coat. “Not hungry.”

Once John had assured the woman that, no, they didn’t need anything, really, we’re good, thank you again, they were left alone. Sherlock was already typing away at his phone, although John never had any idea who he was texting. He had about three ‘friends’, which was a dubious claim at best, and they’d not heard from Lestrade in a while.

John waited for some sort of explanation before realizing nothing was going to happen if he didn’t just ask. So— “What’s happening exactly? Do you have a case for Stark Industries?”

Sherlock frowned slightly, not looking up. “No, no case.”

“Oh.” Well . . . now he just had no idea what was happening. “What, then?”

“Wedding.”

“. . . That explains nothing.”

Sherlock sighed, finally lowering his phone and looking at him. “My uncle is getting married. You’re my plus-one.”

John continued to stare at him. “And what does that have to do with . . .” He gestured vaguely to the plane around them. “This? Stark Industries, the plane, all of it?” Of course, that was ignoring the fact that John hadn’t even known Sherlock _had_ an uncle, but he’d also allowed John to believe that Mycroft was his criminal archnemesis instead of just _saying_ they were brothers. He kind of expected by that point that Sherlock wouldn’t talk about his family unless it was absolutely necessary (and sometimes not even then).

“I’m given to understand that he’s marrying Tony Stark.”

John waited for some indication that Sherlock was joking. He was given none.

“You’re kidding.”

“Doesn’t sound like me.”

John chuckled from the absurdity of it all. “And how is it that your uncle just _happens_ to know and be engaged to one of the richest, most well-known men on the planet?” He knew about Tony Stark. _Everyone_ knew about Tony Stark. Everyone knew that his company had specialized in military weapons since before he was even born, only for him to have a change of heart after being held captive in Afghanistan for three months. Ever since, Stark Industries had specialized in clean energy and consumer tech, with Tony Stark himself becoming famous for his humanitarian projects.

Sherlock shrugged. “I don’t know. You can ask him when we land.”

“When we— Sherlock, I don’t have anything to wear for the wedding of a _multi-billionaire!_ I haven’t even— don’t go back to your phone! Put it down!”

* * *

When they landed nearly twelve hours later, John was groaning in his seat, fumbling with the blanket and sleep mask that the friendly attendant had brought him, looking around blearily. “We’re here. Are we here?”

“Yes,” Sherlock said, already standing up and pulling his coat back on, not seeming to have slept or even moved at all since they’d taken off.

“What do you do when I’m asleep?” he asked, genuinely curious.

Sherlock shrugged. “Text. Read. Plan or do experiments. Sword fights.”

John chuckled, not noticing the entirely serious expression on his friend’s face. It was less than ten minutes from landing to leaving the plane, lured off as they were by the flight attendant from earlier offering them small bags of expensive alcohol and glazed peanuts. John was more enticed by this than he entirely wanted to admit.

There was a car waiting for them when they walked down to the runway, and a man standing outside it with his back to them as he spoke to someone in the front of the car. He turned around suddenly. Sherlock stared at him, and he stared back. Then the man was jogging over, throwing his arms around Sherlock as soon as they were close. Sherlock stilled for a moment, seeming startled, but then it passed and he returned the embrace.

“It’s good to see you, Sherlock.” When he pulled back, Sherlock’s eyes passed over him, taking in what was new and what had changed. _Surgeon. Neurosurgeon. Stopped dying his hair, styling the silver now. Older, nearing forty. Just got in from a flight of his own, likely following a long surgery. Engaged, expensive ring._ “You don’t visit often enough.”

Sherlock couldn’t help a slight smile. “I’m the only consulting detective in the world. I’m very busy. You should visit more.”

“I’m one of the most well-known neurosurgeons in the world. I’m very busy.”

“Well, what are you going to do then.”

Stephen scoffed before looking over his nephew’s shoulder. “Well? Introduce me.”

Sherlock turned back to John. “Of course. John, this is my uncle, Stephen Strange. Stephen, this is John Watson, my . . . friend.”

Stephen held out his hand. “Pleasure to meet you.”

John shook his hand, unable to keep himself from staring. “Hi . . .” He looked between Stephen and Sherlock. “I’m sorry, it’s just . . . you two look _exactly_ the same.”

Stephen and Sherlock looked to each other. “I don’t see it.”

“Me either.”

John stared at them. “Really? You have the same face.”

Sherlock frowned. “Well, we have the same eyes, but other than _that . . ._ ”

“I always thought you looked more like your mother.” Stephen shrugged it off. “C’mon, get your bags. Don’t make Happy get it for you Sherlock, you’re an adult.”

Soon they were piled into the car, Sherlock seeming mildly relieved when he saw that there was a driver and Stephen was sitting in the back with them, leaving Sherlock awkwardly sat in the thin middle seat.

Stephen, seeming even more tired than Sherlock when he crashed after a case, settled into his seat with a sigh. “I just got back from New York myself, though I’m sure you already noticed. Of course I’m just going to have another plane ride when Tony and I go on our honeymoon, but it’ll be nice to have a break. I feel like I haven’t stopped working in a year.” His head rolled a bit as he looked at his nephew. “Are you seriously wearing that coat in this heat?”

Sherlock reluctantly pulled his coat off under Stephen’s watchful eye, scowling at John when he caught the other’s blatant amusement. Stephen sighed when he saw that Sherlock was still wearing his suit jacket under that, but decided to let it go for the moment.

“We’re not even normally in California at this time of year, but we’re having the wedding here, and there are more rooms anyway. Donna was supposed to come with you originally, but you know how anxious she gets nowadays with groups and new people. She put it off, said she had an experiment that couldn’t wait. Which is obviously a lie, but don’t tell her I know. She’ll be here in two days.”

“Donna?” John asked, speaking up for the first time since Stephen had taken it upon himself to catch Sherlock up on everything he’d ever done.

Stephen paused in his speech, looking from John to Sherlock, whose face was studiously blank. “My sister. Sherlock’s mother.”

“Oh.” He had the feeling that Stephen was judging him for not knowing that, but it wasn’t his fault Sherlock was a brick wall when it came to his family.

“Hm.” Stephen looked out his window, watching as they drove by a beach. “Anyway, Victor will be here for the rehearsal, but not a moment earlier. Of course, he could drive down anytime he wanted, but why would he want to be early for his brother’s wedding and have plenty of time to see everyone?”

John frowned, thinking of something. “Is Mycroft coming?”

Sherlock and Stephen froze, staring at him. John felt heat rise in his cheeks, the feeling that he’d somehow managed to put _both_ of his feet in his mouth inescapable.

Finally Sherlock, putting him out of his misery, quietly said, “No.” Then Stephen was asking him about one of their cases, and John’s faux pas was forgotten for the moment.

* * *

John couldn’t help but stare as the car slowed and they pulled up to a house. Well, _house_ didn’t seem like a big enough word. Rather, it was a sprawling, ultra-modern mansion built into a cliffside on the sea, made up of sloping white disks and shining glass, decorated here and there with palm trees, statues, and at least one pool that John could see.

“Wow,” John said, stunned as Happy opened their doors. “This is . . . beautiful.”

Stephen smiled for the first time since he’d greeted Sherlock. “Tony designed it. It's nice, isn't it?” He went around to the trunk, grabbing Sherlock’s suitcase. “I’ve got this one, Happy.” He lead them inside, waiting as the glass doors slid into the walls and calling out once they were inside. “Tony? Are you— DUCK!”

Stephen immediately dropped to the floor, pulling Sherlock down with him and leaving John to follow a moment later. He stared at the floor as something loud sounded behind them, heart pounding as he wondered what they’d walked into, if he should have brought his gun—

Stephen looked up in annoyance. “Seriously, Harley? You _know_ you’re not supposed to use the potato gun in the house.”

A teenage boy with dirty blonde hair and blue eyes lowered his weapon from his position standing on the kitchen table. “I was just checking your reflexes. If this was a real gun, you’d all be dead.”

“Well, let’s be thankful that it wasn’t, then.” Stephen rolled his eyes, scowling at the teenager until he reluctantly set the potato gun on the table, pouting. Stephen looked around. “Where’s your brother?”

“Over here!” another teenager shouted, his head popping up from the living room couch. “I’m talking to MJ. It _sucks_ that as soon as summer breaks starts, I have to be here without my friends.”

“Well, Peter, I’m very sorry that you have to be here for the wedding, but next time we’ll just leave you in a dog cage in New York and you can just let yourself out whenever you want, alright?’

“Sounds fair.”

Stephen chuckled, smiling with the sort of fond exasperation that Sherlock sometimes got when John did something that he thought was _almost_ clever, but not quite. “Where’s your father? I want to introduce our guests.”

Peter and Harley immediately fell silent, looking at each other before suddenly becoming interested in the floor.

Stephen’s eyes sharpened. “Is he holed up in the workshop again?”

Peter shrugged. “I’m not supposed to tell you?”

Stephen sighed, leaning on a table and covering his eyes with a hand. “How long?”

“I can’t say.”

Stephen stared at his soon-to-be-step-son. “Five days?”

“Less than that.”

“Four?”

“Warmer.”

“Three?”

“. . .”

Stephen groaned, head falling forward to bang on the tabletop. “I cannot _believe_ him.” Then he was a flurry of movement, throwing open kitchen cabinets as Sherlock and John stared in confusion, the teenage boys seeming resigned. “I haven’t seen him in _four weeks_ , and when we’re _supposed_ to have a nice family dinner out, when he’s _supposed_ to meet a member of my family and _not_ be a giant asshole, he decides to be a _complete_ fucking asshole!” In his hands he’d gathered a pill bottle and a mortar and pestle set. Setting them all on the table, he put two pills in the bowl and began grinding them to a fine dust. “I swear to _God_ , we cannot have _one day_ —”

“Um . . .” John was staring, scratching his ear as he watched what seemed to be a _very bad idea_ take place. “Should you be doing that?”

“I’m his doctor, I know what I’m doing,” Stephen said flippantly, not looking up.

“Well, I’m also a doctor—”

Stephen laughed, and John didn’t really feel like being helpful anymore after that.

When he was done, Stephen poured the powdered pills into a bottle of water, shaking it until it was well-mixed. “Back in five minutes,” he said absently, heading down a staircase.

Sherlock, John, Harley, and Peter looked at each other. “Hi,” John said awkwardly.

“Hey,” Peter, the dark-haired, dark-eyed teen said, pulling himself up so he was facing them properly. “I’m Peter.”

“Yeah, we figured.”

He nodded, still looking at them. “And you guys are?”

“Sherlock Holmes,” Sherlock said, not seeming to find the situation any stranger than what he normally did. He shook the boy’s hand. “Pleasure.”

“Oh.” Peter frowned, seeming to realize something. “Oh, you’re Doctor Dad’s nephew! He told us about you! That you’re a detective and stuff. My girlfriend, MJ, is a big fan.”

“Really?”

Peter nodded. “Yeah. She really likes murders. Her favorite is the Black Dahlia murder. But she thinks your stuff is cool too.”

John frowned, staring at the innocent-seeming teen. “I’m sorry, did you say that your girlfriend has a favorite _murder_ —”

“So you guys see a lot of dead bodies?” Harley asked suddenly, walking over to join his brother on the couch, still armed with his potato gun.

“Oh, all the time,” Sherlock said.

“Got any pictures?”

Before Sherlock could answer, Stephen was coming back upstairs, his carefully styled hair a mess. He tossed the empty water bottle on a counter. “Change of plans. We’re not going out for dinner anymore, Tony’s gonna be sleeping for a while. How does pasta and garlic bread sound to everyone?”

Everyone else seemed enthusiastic about the idea. John silently wondered what the hell Sherlock had gotten him into now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't use sleeping pills the way Stephen does in this fic, kids. Listen to your actually, non-fanfic doctor.


	2. That's My Fault

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy birthday Tony Stark, this one's for you

The kindest thing that could be said about dinner was that it was uneventful. Sherlock asked his uncle about the hospital, about his patients, a new method of nerve regeneration he was working on, and the medical journals he was published in. Stephen, in return, asked about his cases and the murderers he caught and any experiments he’d done recently. They occasionally answered Peter and Harley’s curious questions, although for the most part the boys seemed to listen in, openly fascinated. John mostly kept his head down, throwing in an extra detail that Sherlock had left out or deemed unimportant.

It occurred to Sherlock halfway through that John felt awkward and unwanted, evident in his forced half-smile and the way he held his fork. He felt a brief pang of regret before pushing it away. Stephen was already in a bad mood, tired and irritated by his fiancé’s behavior; there was no reason to make it worse by introducing an unfamiliar element.

And, if he was honest, he didn’t want to divert his uncle’s attention. Oh, John was wonderful, doubtless, even _interesting_ , one of very few people Sherlock would consider himself close to. But it had been too long since he’d seen any of his family in person (well, from his mother’s side; Mycroft didn’t count). And John, for all his wonderful qualities, was not one of them. Not the sort of person to be praised while useful and called a freak once their back was turned, then shunned once no longer needed. And there were things about Sherlock that he didn’t know, things he might not necessarily _talk about_ with his family, but they _knew_ , and sometimes that was good.

After dinner, Stephen showed them through more of the house — _built within the past 10-15 years, materials likely cost millions alone, location was precarious but the result was surprisingly sturdy_ — before stopping at a guest room. “Normally I wouldn’t put you both in one room, but the house is going to be full in a couple of days. Still, I can move things around if you’re uncomfortable—”

“It’s fine.” John smiled painfully, seeming to just want the day to end. “We’ve had worse conditions.”

Stephen only glanced at the soldier a moment before turning to Sherlock, one brow raised. John would see it as dismissive, and it was, but he knew that Stephen remembered his discomfort with people and physical contact. He would want to make sure it was really _fine_ , that he wouldn’t be staring at the ceiling all night, scratching at his arms as they prickled from unwanted closeness.

His response was a short nod. “See you in the morning?”

It was apparently enough to satisfy him. Stephen’s face softened, just enough that Sherlock could see it. “Try to actually _get some sleep_ tonight. I know how you are. And I have more sleeping pills.” He closed the door behind him when he left, leaving them alone.

Sherlock glanced at John out of the corner of his eye, saw the discomfort written in every line of his skin, the annoyance in his eyes. He was ready to brush it off, had already started to open his suitcase because John insists he can’t sleep in his normal clothes, and he’s quite sure people aren’t supposed to sleep naked next to their flatmates, or at least that’s what John said—

“I’m sorry.” He blinked after he said it, as surprised by the words coming out of his mouth as John was.

“What?”

 _What_ , indeed. He couldn’t think of a time when he’d felt the need to apologize for his family. It was even more rare than when he apologized for _himself_. The Stranges rarely saw a need to do so; they were as they were, and people either put up with them or they didn’t. Usually the latter.

But he wanted them to get along. Unusual feeling, he didn’t think he cared for it.

“I know that Stephen is . . .”

Sherlock said, “Like me,” at the same time John said, “Difficult.”

John was stumbling over his words when Sherlock nodded and said, “Yes, exactly. But most of us agree that he’s better at putting up with people. So, if you can handle me, he should be easy in comparison. Really, you just caught him at a bad time.”

John clamped his mouth shut and, oh, now he _felt bad_. Sherlock wondered how he’d made it worse this time.

“Right,” John said with a fake smile, clearly just wanting to go to be by that point. “Better in the morning.”

* * *

Things were not better in the morning.

By the time John awoke, Sherlock was gone, his side of the bed conspicuously neat. He waited a little while, muttering about the irritatingly huge windows and the light that flooded the room before pulling himself out of bed. A quick shower and change of clothes later (it did not fail to escape him how even the guest bedrooms had en-suite baths), and he made his way out to the kitchen.

He slowed some when he saw that Sherlock was the only other person there. “Hey. Where is everyone?”

When he got closer, he could see that Sherlock was scowling at his phone. “Stephen is doing yoga, Harley and Peter are in the pool. Stark, I assume, remains unconscious.” He huffed. “As soon as we leave, Lestrade has a good case.”

John peered over his shoulder curiously. “Locked room?”

“With _twins!_ ”

John pat his shoulder comfortingly before looking around the kitchen. It was completely different from the one at 221B, both because it was designed in the same ultra-modern fashion as the rest of the house and because there were no body parts in the fridge, but he quickly found a kettle and several boxes of imported tea. He wasn’t sure it was a good idea to make himself at home in their hosts’ kitchen, but he had a headache and needed his morning cuppa.

John set out some mugs while the tea brewed, knowing Sherlock would expect a cup even if he didn’t ask and John didn’t offer. Searching the cupboards for sugar and wondering if there were any biscuits they could have, he asked Sherlock, “Will you check the fridge and get some milk?”

Sherlock sighed in the most put-upon fashion possible before doing as he was asked. He’d just opened the refrigerator when they heard someone coming up the stairs. And frankly, of all the ways he might have thought of meeting billionaire playboy philanthropist Tony Stark, seeing him emerge from the stairs in a pair of sweat pants and a dirty t-shirt, hands covered in grease stains and dark eyes blinking at the light, kind of took the magic out of it.

He nodded in acknowledgement at John, not seeming to know who he was or to particularly care about why he was in his kitchen, using his kettle. His eyes lit up when he looked at the coffee machine and he half-ran to it, whispering, “Oh, thank you.”

And it just so happened that the coffee machine was by the fridge. Where Sherlock still was, slightly bent over with his curly hair hidden, more than a little annoyed at the fact that so far he’d found three different types of milk and none of them were just ‘ _milk_ ’. Tony leaned back, admiring the view. He took a moment to make sure John was too busy with the tea to be paying attention to them before reaching out to smack what he assumed was his fiancé’s ass.

Which is how it came to pass that Stephen walked into the kitchen at the same time that a loud _smack_ sounded through the room. Immediately three people whipped around to stare at Tony, who could only look between Stephen and Sherlock with a dawning sense of realization. Then— “Fuck.”

* * *

“You’re mad at me.”

Stephen paused, looking up from his computer and pulling his glasses down to better glare at Tony. “ _Yes!_ Obviously!”

“Oh . . . To be fair, from behind, if you can’t see the hair, you _literally_ look exactly the same. It’s uncanny, it’s just you with a British accent. Which suits you, apparently. And who would begrudge a man the right to share an affectionate gesture with his fiancé days before their wedding?”

“Right now, me!” He tried to return to the research Christine had sent him, but quickly gave up, closing his laptop and covering his face with his hands, frustrated. “This is not how I wanted this week to go.”

Tony edged further into the office, chancing to put his hands on the desk. Which he quickly removed when Stephen stared at him. “I’m sorry I fucked things up. Twice. You should punish me. Not even in a sexy way.” He paused. “Unless you _want_ to—”

“I am this _goddamn close with you_ —”

“Okay, that was too soon, and that’s my fault!”

Stephen didn’t bother to respond, dropping his forehead to the desk and groaning. “I hate this. Nothing is going right, and there’s only two people here. And is it just me, or is John irritating?”

“I don’t know, I only saw him for like, a minute.”

Stephen groaned again and Tony moved quickly, walking around the desk to set his hands on the doctor’s shoulders, rubbing his back. Pressing his lips to Stephen’s temple, he asked, “What’s wrong? You don’t get upset over what people think of you. You once put your hand in my pants in a room full of investors.”

Stephen couldn’t help the smile that tugged at his lips. “They didn’t _know_.”

 _That’s what you think_ , Tony thought for himself before moving past it. His hands, strong and steady, dug into the knots plaguing Stephen’s back and shoulders. “Tell me.”

Stephen was idly tracing the whorls of his wooden desk, eyes staring straight down. “This . . . is my family. And so are you. I felt so alone for so long, and now . . . now, I want to celebrate how good everything is. And so far, _nothing_ is going right.”

“It will,” Tony promised, because Stephen needed to hear it even if they both knew how unlikely it was. “We are going to get married and kiss and it’s gonna be great, and everyone’s gonna get along and it’ll be all sunshine and roses.”

Stephen was silent for a moment before looking up with the slightest smile. “And rainbows?”

“ _Tons._ ”

“I actually don’t like rainbows.”

“What? What kind of gay man are you?”

* * *

“. . . and this is the family room. Dad likes to put paintings that Miss Potts buys that he doesn’t like in here. There are a couple of Jackson Pollocks. He thinks they’re pretentious.”

Peter stopped in the middle of his tour when his phone began ringing, the screen showing a picture of a teenage girl with curly hair giving someone the finger. Peter’s face broke out into a wide smile, and he held up a finger for silence as he answered the phone. “Hey, MJ . . .”

John didn’t stop looking around the room, careful not to touch any of the paintings lining the walls. It was probably the most homey room in the house, feeling lived in, less like a modern art museum. There were plush, comfy couches, a coffee table with a vase of flowers, a TV and shelves lined with books and movies. He looked through them, curious, until his eyes landed on what looked like a scrapbook. He pulled it out.

 _No_ , he thought, looking through it curiously. _Photo album._ It was old. He didn’t have Sherlock’s deductive powers, but he could tell that much. He didn’t recognize Tony or the teens in any of the pictures, but there were plenty of what he thought at first was a younger Sherlock, though he soon realized it was actually Stephen. Most of them seemed to be from when he was a teenager to about when he was in college. His face was surprisingly soft, and his hair wasn’t neatly styled. He hadn’t quite grown into his features.

A few photos showed a young woman with thick red curls, brown eyes, and a spattering of pale freckles over her face. In the first few pictures she was wearing a dark green graduation gown, sometimes standing by herself, sometimes standing by two young boys who he assumed were her brothers, maybe cousins. A few pages later, and he saw her in a hospital bed, pale and exhausted, but smiling as she held a newborn bundled up in a blue blanket. More photos showed the baby growing into a small boy with a head full of dark curls, and another had him sitting with a twenty-something Stephen as they read from a medical textbook.

He looked up suddenly, motioning to Sherlock, who’d somehow gotten caught up in talking to Peter and MJ about their headless nun case. “Sherlock?”

Sherlock looked over to him, doing a slight double-take when he saw the book in his hands. “I’ll have Peter send you the photos, Miss Jones.” He came over quickly, holding one side with his hand, staring intently.

John pointed out a picture. “Is that you.”

Slowly, Sherlock nodded. “Obviously.” He flipped a few pages back, smiling at one showing the red-headed woman and her baby. “I didn’t know Stephen had any pictures of Mummy.”

John had to bite back his shock. Not because Sherlock didn’t look like his mother (he’d never met or seen either of the Holmes parents before; they might have been grey, faceless blobs for all he knew and it would have been about as surprising). But she — _Donna_ — was _young_. She could not possibly have been more than twenty in the hospital pictures. If he was realistic, he knew it was probably closer to eighteen or nineteen.

“She’s . . . pretty.” He winced when Sherlock looked sharply at him. He should have kept his mouth shut, but he’d wanted to fill the silence. Of course, Sherlock would probably have _preferred_ the quiet, but he couldn’t take it back now. “Are there any pictures with your dad?”

 _Oh, how did that make it worse?_ Sherlock’s smile dimmed immediately, his face tightening. “Not here.”

Then he returned to his conversation with Peter about a chemical experiment the teenager was working on, and John quietly returned the book to its spot.


	3. No Promises

“He feels _really_ bad about it.”

Stephen and Sherlock were walking slightly behind the others on their way to dinner, a California sunset shedding pink and orange light on them as they made their way through Malibu. They were taking their time, enjoying the warm breeze and surprising lack of clouds. It was worlds away from London, and Sherlock was still annoyed at being forced to take off his coat.

He cast a look at his uncle, not petulant in the _slightest_. “I don’t care—”

“Stephen, the boys want ice cream!” Tony announced, looking back at him. John did the same, mouthing ‘Help’ at his friend. His pleas were ignored.

“Not until after dinner,” Stephen said without missing a beat. “And stop asking me if they can do stuff just so you don’t have to be the one to say no.”

“I don’t do that.”

“Then you’ll have no problem stopping.”

Sherlock scowled sourly. “Villainizing and alienating your step-children from you. Classic egotistical behavior—”

“You’re allowed to just not like someone, you know. You don’t have to pick them apart and pretend to diagnose them.”

“I don’t diagnose, I simply _observe_.”

Stephen rolled his eyes. “Yes, and _I_ am observing you being an ass.”

“ _I’m being_ —” He lowered his voice when people on the streets started looking at them. “ _I’m_ being an ass? I’m not the pervert.”

“Oh, please.”

“Not to mention,” Sherlock barreled forward, “you’ve not exactly been fair yourself.” He looked pointedly at John, who was still glancing back at them every now and then, frowning.

Stephen groaned. “He’s—”

“My _friend_ ,” Sherlock said firmly. “And someone who has personally saved my life multiple times.”

“Any idiot with a gun could do that.”

“Well, _he_ did. And he’s not an idiot.”

Stephen sighed in a put-upon fashion. “Fine. I’ll be polite if you are.”

“No promises.”

Stephen stared him down. “You _will_ be polite, or else I’ll seat you next to Victor at the reception.”

“You wouldn’t.” Sherlock turned to his uncle with alarm.

“Don’t test me.” Stephen shrugged. “Besides, if you like him so much, there must be something I'm missing."

“ _Thank you_ ,” Sherlock said honestly.

Stephen grinned mischievously. “Or maybe you're just smitten.”

Sherlock walked past him.

Stephen laughed, jogging to catch up. “Oh, don’t be like that Billy!”

“I’ve told you not to call me that!”

By the time they’d caught up with the others, they were at the restaurant. Tony held the door open for them, not quite able to resist an appreciative look at Stephen’s ass as he walked in. Then he turned away and cleared his throat when Sherlock glared at him.

John looked around as Tony spoke quietly to the maître d', pulling at his tie. “Nice place.”

“Aren’t you glad I had that suit made for you?” Sherlock asked, looking around at the other patrons. “ _So_ many of these people are having affairs.”

“Right. Hey, how did you get my measurements? This fits _very_ well.”

“Don’t worry about it. Trust me, it’s not the worst thing I’ve done to you without your knowledge.”

Before he could even _begin_ to process that statement, they were being shown to a table outside, the beach only meters away. The soft sounds of nearby waves washed over them.

Tony ordered a bottle of wine for the table, but stuck to water once the waiter was gone. John eyed him curiously. “Are you going to have some wine?”

Everyone looked at him then, Sherlock and Tony awkward, Stephen outright _angry_. Tony smiled to defuse the tension, but it didn’t work. “I don’t drink.” The unsaid _‘anymore_ ’ seemed to hang over the table.

Harley started to reach for his father’s empty glass. “Can I have some wine?”

“ _No_ ,” Tony and Stephen said at the same time, the latter snatching the glass away from him.

Still feeling the heat of eyes on him, John quickly picked up his menu. He frowned. “There are no prices on this.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Tony said absently. “I’m paying for dinner.”

“I wouldn’t ask you to—”

“You don’t have to ask. I’m offering.” Tony smiled briefly before returning to his own menu. “Besides, I like taking care of people.”

John wanted to argue more, but he could feel Stephen staring at him, tapping his fingers on the table. It just seemed like it would be better if he didn’t speak at all, and for a while, he didn’t.

They sat in awkward silence until the waiter came back to take their orders. Finally, Tony started talking about last-minute wedding arrangements that had to be done over the next few days. An attempt at conversation that did not last long, as he found that even more boring than Stephen did.

“Sherlock tells me you served in Afghanistan,” Stephen said suddenly. John looked up, startled. From the closed-off expression on Stephen’s face, he couldn’t tell if it was a genuine attempt at conciliation or a way for him to pick John apart even more. From what he’d seen, it could be both.

He took a slow sip of wine before answering. “Yes.”

Stephen raised a brow when John didn’t expand further. “Why’d you leave?”

John looked at Sherlock in surprise. He’d have thought Stephen knew all about that by now, whether because he picked it up in the same way Sherlock did, or his nephew simply told him. “Discharged. Shot in the shoulder.”

Stephen nodded as though he expected this. John looked down at the table, his hand tightening around a fork moments before he became aware of plates of appetizers being set around the table. He blinked twice before coming back to himself completely, forcing a smile as he looked to Tony, desperate to change the conversation. “It must be difficult running a company like yours. Especially after . . .” He trailed off awkwardly, not really having any idea of how to end that sentence.

Tony just shrugged, casually piling his plate with food, speaking casually to diffuse the tension. “Pepper does most of the work of actually running S.I. these days. I prefer to stick to R&D. Right now I’m working on trying to get all of our factories and offices running on arc reactor tech. It’s expensive right now, but if we play our cards right, it’ll be widespread in a couple of years.”

John still didn’t know why he didn’t keep his mouth shut. He could have just nodded and said, “Oh, interesting,” or something equally inane. Instead, he said, “Bit counter-intuitive, isn’t it? Talking about green energy one minute then doing stuff like sending private planes all over the world just to get people here faster.”

As soon as he’d finished speaking, he could tell he’d struck a nerve. Stephen set his fork down and began speaking in a low, hushed tone before Tony could even think of a response, darkened eyes doing nothing to hide his anger. “All of the S.I. jets run on the same arc reactor technology we were just talking about — the same thing Tony built to save himself while being held captive in a cave for three months.”

“Steph,” Tony started.

“As anyone who _actually_ knows anything about my fiancé could tell you that he’s someone who always puts others before himself, who always practices what he preaches, and whose highest concern is making this world a kinder place.”

Stephen leaned forward as though preparing to go on a longer rant, but he stopped suddenly, seeing something. He straightened in his chair, drinking from his wine glass while and turning to look out over the beach as someone walked up to their table.

“Stephen?”

The doctor sighed for a moment before putting on a strained smile, standing up and greeting the man that had come over to talk to them. “Mordo.” He pulled the man into a hug. “What are you doing here? I didn’t expect to see you until tomorrow.”

“Oh, my flight was early, so Wong and I came here for dinner. He doesn’t care for the food, but he likes to watch rich white people in their natural habitat.”

Stephen chuckled, some of the tension fading from his body. He turned back to the table, his friend following him. “Mordo, this is my nephew Sherlock, and his . . . colleague, John Watson. Sherlock, Mordo is going to be my best man at the wedding.”

Mordo reached out and shook Sherlock’s hand. He seemed aware of Sherlock’s eyes looking him over as though scanning him, but he didn’t seem to mind. “Yes, I’ve heard of you. Stephen told me you were a . . . detective, was it?”

“Consulting Detective,” Sherlock corrected.

“Of course. I’ve seen your website, the Science of Deduction. I found it fascinating.”

Sherlock paused, eyes alight. “Really?”

“Yes. I admit, I’d never considered things like the 240 types of tobacco ash particularly interesting—”

“243,” Sherlock said, and John could see the exact moment he shut down and seemed to prepare for something either stupid or insulting or both.

“—but you have such knowledge and command of everything you write about, I found it difficult to stop reading.”

“. . . Oh.” He smiled before he realized it, preening the slightest bit. “Thank you.” He leaned forward slightly on his palm, reviewing what he knew about Mordo from his minute of observation. _Late thirties, strong hands, scars on the forehead and fingers, interesting accent, recently spent time in South Asia, possibly India or Nepal, possibly military, no, former military, maybe a recent turn to pacifism_ — “Sadly, my uncle hasn’t told me much about you. But perhaps we can talk at the wedding.”

“I’d like that. I could ask you more about the case you had with the elephant.”

Sherlock huffed. “Well you can, but honestly, no one knows how it got there.”

Mordo chuckled. “In that case, I’ll be happy to offer my insight.” He patted Stephen on the shoulder. “Well, I’ll leave you to your dinner. Stephen, I’ll see you tomorrow night.” He smiled at them once more. Sherlock found himself returning the gesture without having to remind himself.

Stephen seemed to have brightened considerably by the time Mordo had gone. He started up a quiet conversation with Peter and ignored John, which seemed like the best option all things considered. Sherlock turned to John to see how he was doing, but stopped when he saw that his friend was frowning. “John?”

John started a bit before he cut into the steak he’d ordered. “Mordo seemed nice.”

Sherlock’s brows furrowed as he tried to deduce the change in mood. Checking to see that Stephen wasn’t overtly paying attention to them, he leaned towards his friend and asked quietly, “What? Was that not good?” He didn’t understand, a feeling he hated more than anything. John was always saying he should do things like be polite and say ‘thank you’ and pretend to be interested in their lives. How had he been wrong?

“No. Not at all, you’ve been . . . lovely.” John was aware of a growing feeling of unease in the pit of his stomach, something that had started when he first saw Stephen, but it was only now he could place it. Now he wished he didn’t have to meet the rest of Sherlock’s family. He could see Sherlock fitting in here, with them, people who were just as temperamental as him and felt just as strongly, who countered his finely turned arguments with their own, who could keep up with him intellectually and never missed a beat when he said something strange or seemed uncaring. And he should have been happy to know that his friend had people like that, people who could both care for him and understand. It was probably one of very few places where Sherlock would fit in.

He just wasn’t sure _he_ fit there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was originally going to have an extra scene from the next day where we finally meet Donna in the flesh (ink? binary code?) but then this scene turned out to be fairly long on its own, and I figured it would be neater this way. She's coming, though. Lurking in the distance like a shark.


	4. William "Billy" Strange

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *warnings for mentions of alcohol, drug use, and emotional abuse

John went to bed before Sherlock, who stayed up to give his uncle his wedding gift — the preserved brain of a serial killer Sherlock had caught with a rare neurological condition. Stephen was so delighted he insisted on dissecting it right away.

 _They’ll probably be up all night with that thing,_ John thought. The thought made him smile for a moment before the sadness of earlier returned. He tried to shake it off. _Just a few more days, and we’ll be home._ Maybe then he’d be able to put this sick feeling in his spine away.

He slept fitfully before twitching awake soon after sunrise. The sky hadn’t yet turned blue, but that didn’t stop Sherlock from running around the room as he got dressed, pulling on a black jacket and matching trousers over his purple shirt, even stopping to add his scarf in between fussing with his hair and finding a watch. John pulled the comforter down, blinking blearily at him. “Sherlock? What are you doing?”

Sherlock looked at him as though he’d forgotten he was there (which was entirely possible). “Good, you’re awake.”

“I am _now_.”

Sherlock ignored him in favor of finding an appropriate outfit from the messy pile of clothes on top of John’s suitcase and throwing them to him, turning away before he could see them fall on John’s face. “Get dressed. I want to be outside when she gets here.”

John pulled his jumper off his head. “Who?”

Sherlock stared at him as though he were an idiot. “ _Mother._ ”

* * *

The car door opened, and out stepped the woman John had come to think of as almost mythical. Donna Holmes straightened her emerald-green cocktail dress, pulled her coat close around her, and looked at them.

If John didn’t know better, he would never have guessed she was related to Sherlock, never mind his mother. She must have been in her mid-forties, but apart from a few lines around her eyes and mouth, she seemed ageless, a sort of ethereal quality she shared with her brother and son. Her curly hair, dark-red and shiny, fell halfway down her back. She had large brown eyes and was tall, probably taller than John, although not quite reaching Sherlock’s height. He stared at her, trying to find something in common with the man he knew, and found it in the elegant, sharp cut of her cheekbones and the light in her eyes. As though when they looked at the world, they saw more than anyone else.

Her face broke into a grin when she saw them, carelessly dropping her bag on the ground before running over and throwing her arms around her son. Sherlock stumbled back a bit before returning the embrace, a small smile gracing his lips. John winced when Donna practically squealed right next to him.

“Billy! Oh, how I’ve missed you!”

“ _Mummy_ ,” Sherlock grit out. “You swore you wouldn’t call me that anymore.”

Donna rolled her eyes fondly as she pulled back, fluffing her son’s hair before looking at him. “Well, perhaps I’d remember if you visited more often! As soon as we’re back in England, I’m going to come and stay with you for a week, no excuses.”

Before John could wonder why Sherlock wouldn’t stay with _her_ , Donna had turned and launched herself at him next, hugging him with enough strength to make John wheeze. “John Watson! Sherlock talks about you all the time! And your blog! Oh, I feel like I know you already!” She finally released him, giving John a moment to breathe. “We’ll have to talk while I’m here. Oh, you have such nice eyes. Lovely.” She pat him on the shoulder before giving her son a short hug. “I’m going to put my stuff away and then we’ll catch up a bit, yeah?” She leaned up on her toes to kiss Sherlock’s cheek, then picked her bag up. “Bye!”

She took off, followed by her brother and Tony, whose ruffled hair and amused looks suggested they’d gotten a similar greeting. John watched her go inside. “That . . . was not what I expected.” Her turned to Sherlock with a frown. “‘Billy’?”

Sherlock shifted, avoiding his eyes. “We should go inside—”

“Tell me or I’ll tell Lestrade it’s your real name.”

Sherlock stared at him in horror. “You wouldn’t.”

“Try me.”

Sherlock shifted before sighing. “It’s short for William.”

John frowned, not understanding.

“. . . My first name.”

John searched his face for signs of a lie, slowly grinning when he found none. “Are you kidding?”

“Hardly.”

John laughed in delight. “How did I not know that?”

“Most people don’t. I would prefer to keep it that way.” After a moment, he added, “And besides, my mother wanted to name me Sherlock. Father wouldn’t let her.”

For a moment, John wanted to keep joking, but the look on Sherlock’s face stopped him. His friend turned to go inside, but John grabbed his wrist. “Sherlock . . .” He glanced at the mansion behind them, huge and imposing. “You’ve _got_ to tell me something about your family. It’s like every time I’m talking to these people, I’m walking a minefield without knowing until my _leg’s_ been blown off.” He sighed when Sherlock looked away from him. “Just . . . give me _something_ before I go and fit my feet in my mouth again.”

Sherlock was still for a moment before giving in. “Surely you’ve noticed by now that Mycroft is too old to be my mother’s son.”

John did a bit of mental math. If he was right, and Mycroft was about seven years older than his brother, then Donna Strange had probably been eleven or twelve when he was born. “Well, now that you point it out . . .”

Sherlock nodded. “Mummy is . . . my father’s _second_ wife. They met when she was on a trip to London the summer before she was supposed to start university.”

John’s eyes widened. “God. Your father must have been . . .”

“Disgusting, I know. Regardless, he divorced Mycroft’s mother and married mine. Mummy left the states and I was born.” He eyed the glass door waiting for them. “You shouldn’t mention my father in front of them. Especially not Stephen. They’ve never gotten along. Stephen always called him ‘Donna’s _first_ husband’.”

John couldn’t hold back a laugh at that.

* * *

Donna Holmes was a whirlwind of a woman, only taking a minute to throw her bags into her guest room before changing into a plain t-shirt and jeans and throwing a dressing gown on top. She took control of the condition, roping Stephen, Sherlock, and Tony into helping her put together enough food to feed a small army. The entire time, she managed to keep up a dialogue with John, who she insisted should sit at the island with Peter and Harley and “not worry yourself over helping, these lazy men have probably already put you through enough”.

“—and your writing is so interesting! Absolutely delightful, so colorful! One of your recent cases, the one with the couple who murdered people at nightclubs, inspired a few chemical experiments of my own! Sherlock sends me body parts to use sometimes, such a sweet boy. Unfortunately, while I was trying to replicate the neurotoxins they used, I accidentally blew up my lab and possibly created a new form of meth. I need to be more careful about labels. Still, it’ll be an interesting paper.”

He was starting to see where Sherlock got it.

“Are you going to use that in your new book?” John asked, having looked her name up while no one was looking because he’d be _damned_ if he made a bad impression on all the Stranges he met.

“Oh, who knows anymore. I’ve written a few textbooks before, but that bores me now. The next one will probably just be a collection of essays and experiments, if I even publish it at all. I can’t even THINK about it properly, I should just take a year away and blow stuff up somewhere else, get it out of my system. Oh, Sherlock, we should go to the house in Cornwall for a while and see how many chemical fires it takes to destroy the guest house. John, you come too, I’ll show you how to make the acid I use to dissolve handcuffs. Could come in handy if you get kidnapped again. I have to warn you, it also dissolves the skin. And bones. But we have special gloves and goggles, so we’ll be fine. But don’t leave it in the fridge! Made that mistake one too many times.”

Donna spoke so fast, switching from topics so quickly, that it took John a moment to realize she’d invited him. “That sounds lovely, Mrs. Holmes.”

“Oh no, call me _Donna_ , please, I’ve never liked being called Holmes. I didn’t even want to change my name, but Henry insisted, and, well, that’s just how it was at the time . . .” She froze for a moment, not speaking as she stared at the eggs she was frying. Everyone seemed to hold their breath to see was she would do, if she would do anything.

Then Donna snapped back into life, grinning. “But I was thinking about your first case with Sherlock, A Study In Pink, and I was wondering if you ever figured out who killed the cab driver . . .”

John stared at her a moment before ducking his head, looking at the fruit platter he’d started to put together for a lack of something to do. The more he heard about Sherlock’s father, the less he wanted to know. At least that was one family member he wouldn’t have to meet. And Donna was nice. So nice that even Stephen seemed to be in a good mood, making John a cup of tea without asking. Granted, he’d been making tea for everyone. And John didn’t like that type of tea. And there was no sugar. _But other than that . . ._

“Are you ready to go?” Stephen asked suddenly, looking at Tony.

Tony nodded around his chocolate croissant, taking a long drink of coffee before speaking. “Yeah. Just gonna change and drop the boys off with May, and we’ll be gone for the night. Johnny, you’re with me, right?”

John looked around at the table, seeing everyone watch him expectantly. “For what, exactly?”

* * *

Tony Stark’s bachelor party started at a Michelin star restaurant in Los Angeles and somehow ended in a tattoo shop long after midnight. John was too drunk to remember whatever happened in between, but he was pretty sure that there had been a zoo at some point, a casino, at least one man named after a Norse god, and a _lot_ of glitter.

“OKAY,” James Rhodes, Tony’s friend and best man, began, “if Stephen asked, I was black-out drunk in the car, I couldn’t have stopped him.”

Everyone laughed, even John, who took another swing of the champagne bottle someone had handed him. Tony was the only one of the half-dozen or so friends who _wasn’t_ drunk, which later would make his decision to brand himself all the stranger. He was laying on a bed, flipping through a book of tattoo examples and ideas. “Well, I _definitely_ want a tramp stamp.” Another cheer went up at that, the loudest coming from Tony’s assistant Pepper, who’d had more than her fair share of martini olives through the night. “ _And_ , I think I want it to say, ‘Property of Stephen Strange-Stark. No, _Doctor_ Stephen Stark-Strange. Strange-Stark or Stark-Strange, what do you guys think?”

Three of Tony’s muscley friends who may or may not have been involved with a shady government organization shouted, “Stark-Strange!” while Pepper, Rhodey, and John responded with an equally enthusiastic, “Strange-Stark!”

“That solved nothing.” Tony shut the book with a shrug. “Someone get me a coin, we’re gonna flip it.”

A tattoo artist who’d been eyeing their group for a while finally spoke up. “Look, we don’t really like to tattoo names on people, especially partners, and I don’t think—”

“I’ll pay you ten thousand dollars.”

“. . . I’ll prep you.”

Thirty minutes later, and everyone else was either too loud, too drunk, or too unconscious to be in the room. John was left alone with Tony, holding his hand as the tattoo artist worked on the small of his back. “You’re doing great,” he said, wincing when Tony squeezed his hand in pain.

“I went with Strange-Stark, right?”

“Yeah.” He didn’t actually remember. But it didn’t seem the time to mention that.

“Stephen’s gonna be pissed when he sees this,” Tony whispered with a smile.

John scoffed. “Not like he isn’t gong to be anyway. Man’s got a stick up his ass the size of— oh my God, that’s your fiancé! I’m sorry!”

“Don’t worry about it,” Tony said, seeming more amused than anything else. “I’m marrying him, I know what he’s like.”

John hesitated a minute, trying to collect his thoughts. “How do you do it? I mean, I . . . care about Sherlock, but even I know he’s difficult. And Stephen’s not much better.”

For a moment, seeing the darkened expression on Tony’s face, John worried that he’d managed to offend _both_ grooms. Then he saw the shockingly sincere look in Tony’s watery eyes. He only had a moment to think, _Oh no, is he going to cry_ , before Tony said, “I love him. I would do anything for him. And I know he's kind of ridiculous, but I'm ridiculous too. We're ridiculous together. You know?”

John nodded without thinking of it. “I know.”

“And I don't even mind most of the stuff he does anymore or asks me to do. Like, there is an eighty percent chance in a few weeks I'm going to have my totally awesome and rational tattoo ruined by lasers, and I don't even mind because I just love it when he's happy. And yeah, he’s an asshole sometimes, but when he cares . . . it’s like being loved by the sun. It’s just so much bigger and better than any other relationship I’ve ever had— are you crying?”

“No,” John said, wiping away a tear. “I’m just pissed.”

* * *

“Are you smoking?”

Sherlock quickly dropped his cigarette on the ground, stepping on it as he turned on his heel. “ _No._ ”

Stephen shook his head as he stepped out on the balcony. “Your mother is having fun with the fire-breathers. It’s either going to end very well or _very_ badly.”

“You always have the most exciting parties.”

“Don’t flatter me. You’re bad at it.” He closed the door behind him and looked out on the cliff, holding out a hand. “Well? Don’t keep me waiting.”

Sherlock hesitated before taking out his cigarette holder and handing his uncle one. “I thought you quit.”

“I did. It’s a disgusting habit.” He took a long drag before breathing out smoke. “Except for stressful times and occasionally after sex. This is the former.”

Sherlock wrinkled his nose before deciding to let it go. They stood in silence for a few minutes, enjoying the salty smell of the sea and the dark blue sky. Sherlock waited to speak. “You’ve been giving John a hard time.”

Stephen sighed. “Billy—”

“Don’t call me that. I’m not a child anymore. And I don’t like the way you’ve treated my friend.”

Stephen looked up at the sky before tapping the ashes off of his cigarette. “Fine. I’ll apologize. But you’re the one who insisted I invite him.”

“Because I needed him here.”

Stephen shook his head. “Sherlock, we’re family. I worry about you like you’re one of my own boys. And that’s why I’m worried now.” When Sherlock tried to look away, Stephen put a hand on his shoulder. “John is . . . nice. I’m sure he’s nice. And not _entirely_ stupid. But he’s not . . .”

“There’s nothing wrong with John,” Sherlock said defensively.

“Probably not. But I don’t want what happened to your mother to happen to you.” Sherlock was stubbornly silent. “She met Henry, and he was _nice_ , and thought she was so clever, and he liked that. Until he didn’t. Until it made him feel small. And what was there for him to do other than make her feel the same way? He made her feel weak, and stupid, and he kept her from her family.”

Sherlock hesitated before telling him, “She tried to leave once, you know. They’d been arguing for weeks. Father wanted to send me to a boarding school where I’d be away all year, she wanted me to stay. By the end of it, she just wanted to bring me to the states. Thought we’d be able to stay at the house in Nebraska. He found out and said if she even tried, he’d have her institutionalized and she’d never see me again.” Of course, she’d ended up in a hospital a few years later anyway. Rehab ran in the family.

“God. Remind me to kill him in his sleep one day.”

“I doubt you need me to remember.”

“True.”

Stephen rubbed his face with his hands before looking at his nephew. “But that’s the thing, Sherlock. You’re just like your mother. You shine so bright. And there are always going to be people who want to put that light out to make themselves feel better. You might not see it immediately. But I’d never forgive myself if it happened again.”

Sherlock shook his head without thinking. “John’s not like that.”

“I hope not. I hope I’m wrong.” He paused, wrinkling his nose. “Ugh. Don’t tell anyone I said that.” He tapped off the end of a cigarette that had long stopped being anything other than a line of ash. “But, if I’m right, then you always have a place to go.” He went to open the door, pausing to look at him. “And I think you’d like New York. All sorts of crime.”


	5. Prove Us Wrong

John woke up to a pounding noise in his head and the sound of shouting. He wanted to just roll over, but he couldn’t ignore it, and the light was piercing his eyelids. He got up, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand as he put on a pair of trousers and went outside.

“—you had TWO. RULES. NO prostitutes, NO tattoos!”

“I followed the first one.”

The previous night came back to John in a rush as he walked out into the living room. Stephen Strange was shouting at the top of his lungs, looking absolutely _enraged_ , pale face flushed red, hands running through the silver streaks of his hair. More people were sat around the room, some of them, like Pepper who he’d met last night and the woman he assumed was Christine, were staring. Others, like Rhodey, seemed to be trying to stay very still lest they draw attention to themselves. Harley and Peter were making no effort to hide their enthusiastic laughter. Sherlock wasn’t paying attention to the argument happening a few feet way, rather choosing to lie down on the couch with his hands steepled under his chin as he stared at the ceiling. Donna was sitting on top of the back of the same couch, her legs crossed under her as she furiously scribbled something in a leather-bound notebook. And, at the center of it all, Tony Stark was lying down on the opposite love seat, intermittently wincing and trying (unsuccessfully) to placate his fiancé.

John quickly made himself scarce, shaking his head as he wondered that this didn’t even seem strange to him anymore. Yes, his best friend was a genius and the world’s only Consulting Detective, and his uncle was a renowned neurosurgeon who was marrying Tony Stark, a famed inventor with more money than God, and they were arguing in their mansion on the cliffs because Tony had branded Stephen’s ownership of him in elaborate cursive right above his ass. What of it?

He decided to go outside to escape and get some fresh air to help his hangover (which did not work). He ended up being both relieved and irritated by this decision. Outside, people were arriving, more guests who needed bedrooms, wedding vendors trying to get stuff set up for the rehearsals and the big day tomorrow, caterers and workers and florists and consultants.

The entire mansion was a flurry of activity for the next twenty-four hours. People were in and out of the house, all of them anywhere from mildly worrying to complete panic. John was roped into task after task, usually without knowing how he ended up there. He helped set up chairs outside in what passed for a courtyard, helped one couple put their suitcases away, brought in food from the caterers, kept Peter from accidentally blowing up the kitchen, kept Harley from _intentionally_ blowing up his bathroom, and showed a seamstress to his room and stood still for more than an hour as he made adjustments to a suit Stephen apparently ordered for him to wear to the ceremony. Which was nice, even if the jacket was a dark-green velvet fabric that John would have never picked for himself in a million years. Both because it was far more extravagant than anything he owned or wanted to, and because he was quite certain the entire suit (complete with shoes and cuff-links) was worth more than he made in a month.

By the time _that_ was done, he was ready to stop helping. He got a glass of water to help with the headache pounding away in his skull and looked around in search of Sherlock.

He wasted a good fifteen minutes before he thought to go outside. There, he could hear a violin softly playing notes to a song he didn’t recognize. The courtyard had been mostly cleared to allow the wedding party center-stage. Around two hundred or so chairs were arranged in a circle with a wide path down the middle, allowing each groom to walk and meet each other in the center. Stephen and Tony were practicing that right now as Sherlock and a few other musicians, including Donna at a harp, played for them. John recognized a few other people he’d met, James Rhodes as the officiant, Pepper Potts as Tony’s best woman and Karl Mordo as Stephen’s best man. A few other people he didn’t know directly but by reputation, Christine Palmer and Bruce Banner, apparently the other groomsman and woman.

Sherlock’s eyes were closed as he played, long, graceful fingers expertly moving the bow. The sun made his hair shine in a way John rarely got to see in London. He looked . . . peaceful. Maybe even happy. _He’s beautiful like this_ , John thought. It didn’t seem like a strange thing to think at the moment. Just true.

Knowing better than to interrupt, he found a wall and leaned against it, allowing himself a break.

So he was kind of annoyed when someone joined him.

“Mind if I stand with you for a bit?” The man didn’t wait for an answer before pulling a flask from his jacket and taking a swig. “I hate family events, but I’d never hear the end of it if I didn’t show. They’ll be mad when they realize I was here but still didn’t go to the piano like I was supposed to, but I have about fifteen minutes, give or take.” Seeming to remember his manners, he held out a hand for John to shake, then dropped it as soon as he could. “Victor. You?”

John looked at him closely. The man had what he was beginning to think of as the Strange look. Tall, with a slight build, although he was not as willowy as his siblings or nephew. He was bit thicker in the chest and stomach, and his hair was an average, mid-range brown, his eyes acidic green. He was more plain than the others, although with a similar sort of agelessness to him. He wore a green flannel shirt and a plain brown jacket over jeans, easily making him the most normally dressed of the family. But he had the same sharp cheekbones as the others, the same eyes with a sort of light in them, that saw more than they were supposed to. John thought that maybe the universe was made to be seen by eyes like theirs.

“John Watson. You’re Stephen’s brother, aren’t you?”

“Guilty.” He drank from his flask again, and John could smell the whiskey. When he finished, he looked at the Brit curiously. “You’re Billy’s friend, aren’t you?”

“What, you mean Sherlock?” He was never going to get used to that. His main consolation was that Sherlock apparently hated it as much as he hated any other nickname.

Victor rolled his eyes. “Yeah. God, can you imagine if he’d been named _Sherlock Strange?_ As if his childhood wasn’t bad enough.” He took another swig of his whiskey, not seeming to get any drunker. “He’s a good kid, though. You should give him a chance.”

John frowned, thinking back over the short conversation and trying to figure out what he’d missed. “Sorry?”

Victor looked at him with a knowing smile, not dissimilar to the way Sherlock sometimes looked at clients who didn’t think he was as smart as he was. “C’mon, Watson. We all read your blog. We hear the way Sherlock talks about you when he deigns to grace his poor family with a call. We know.”

What _was it_ with these people and their ability to see what through someone and cut through the quick to their heart? And worse, _why did they feel the need to say it all out loud?_ “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Everyone _knows_ , John. I know, Donna knows, Stephen knows—”

“Stephen Strange _hates_ me!” John insisted, if only for a chance to steer the conversation in a new direction.

“Possibly. But probably not.”

“He _does_ , he thinks I’m a stupid arsehole who’s dragging Sherlock down by my mere presence!” He was close to shouting, but he couldn’t help it. The frustration of the past few days was pouring out, and he didn’t know how to stop.

Victor screwed the cap back onto his flask, not bothering to look at John as he spoke. “Stephen Strange is an arrogant, pompous, rude, self-important asshole who loves so deeply he fears no one will ever care as much as he does, worries constantly over his family, is as capable of great kindness as he is anger, holds himself to insanely high standards and expects everyone else to do the same, and ultimately, wants to make the world a softer place. If you think he doesn’t like you, it’s because he wants what’s best for Sherlock and is checking to make sure you’re it.” He shrugged. “We’re kind of a fucked-up family, but we look out for each other. Plus, after how that dick Henry treated Donna all those years . . . well, you know what they say about history repeating. We’re nervous.”

At that moment, Stephen glanced over and noticed his brother, shouting, “ _VICTOR!_ ”

“That’s my cue.” He pocketed his flask and patted John’s back like they were old friends. “Prove us wrong, Watson.”

* * *

“Strange, are you in . . . here.”

Stephen Strange was laying on top of his bed with his hands covering his eyes, for once looking as exhausted as he felt. He moved one hand just enough to look up at John, grunting. “Give me five minutes. I just need a break.”

“Oh.” John paused in the doorway, not sure what he should do. “Do you want some tea? Sherlock always like a cuppa when people are too much for him.”

“What I _want_ ,” Stephen threw his hand out over the bed, staring up at the ceiling, “is for it to be tomorrow night already so I can just be married and go on my goddamned honeymoon and not have to put up with anymore fucking people.”

“. . . Oh.” Outside, everyone was sitting down for the rehearsal dinner, caterers hard at work getting enough food for the dozen or so people who’d shown up and were now squashed into the dining room. They were just waiting on Stephen now . . . which could take a while, it seemed. “Do you want me to get Tony?”

“He’s holding them off. He knows what I need.” The tiniest of smiles graced his lips. “He’s great like that.”

“Yeah,” John said awkwardly, scratching his chin. He didn’t really want to be there, but it didn’t feel like he should go. “You two are good together.”

“Thank you.” Stephen blinked, eyes suddenly widening as he remembered something. “Oh. I told Sherlock I’d apologize to you.”

“About what— wait, _Sherlock_ asked you to apologize?”

Stephen nodded, not caring to look at John and see the shock on his face. “Yes. I guess I did sort of blow up at dinner when I didn’t have to. I’m just . . . very sensitive when other people talk about Tony.”

“What, because of his . . .”

Stephen stared at him, raising a brow.

“. . . past.”

“Good save.” The doctor rolled his eyes before returning his attention to a wall. “I don’t know. It’s just that sometimes . . . sometimes I want to fight everyone who ever said those things about him. Everyone who hurt him. I want to grab them by the neck and force them to see who he really is, all the good parts of himself he hides and all the things he does because he cares, and he cares so much, more than I ever thought a person could. He cares about me and I don't even know why. How he could look at all the broken parts I keep hidden, but he saw anyway, and all the walls I built and think, ‘I want that one.’”

John chuckled despite himself. “I _think_ I know what you mean.”

Stephen looked at him, and John grew uncomfortable again. Stephen sat up, throwing his legs over the side of the bed before he spoke. “John, I know that Sherlock is different. That’s a good thing, ordinary people are boring and stupid. But it means that not many people are going to fully understand him. They think he’s somehow _wrong_ , that he needs to be changed, _fixed_.”

“That’s not—”

“Sherlock tells me you’re not like that. I want to believe both of you. Which is why I won’t bring it up again after this. But . . .” He started to say something, sighed, and tried again. “Don’t hurt him. Please.”

For a moment, John couldn’t speak. His throat was dry and pained. It took him a moment to force out, “I won’t. Promise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK, so this is officially close to the end ... but not quite?
> 
> In case there's any confusion, I changed this fic to "A Strange Reunion" because I still had ideas I wanted to incorporate into this fic that weren't focused on the wedding and went more into other plot threads and more of Sherlock canon ...
> 
> ... then I decided that I really wanted to get started on a couple of other fics, and also that those ideas would kind of make more sense as future installments of a series rather than as part of THIS fic. So while this particular fic is coming to an end, the idea is not! (... unless I never come back to this series after this but that probably won't happen) 
> 
> That also means that I'm planning to leave certain ... parts ... perhaps of the romantic nature ... of this fic open to be explored and resolved in the future. Sorry not sorry.


	6. Worth It

The day of the wedding was the perfect amount of warm and sunny, with just a few clouds to give them a bit of shade every now and then. The highest chance of rain was 2% at 11 pm, proving that even nature _itself_ bowed to the whims of the Stranges.

John looked out a window as a small army of consultants and wedding planners directed people to and fro, making sure every last flower and candle and decoration was in place. Sherlock was there too, already dressed in an elegant black suit with a champagne-gold vest and tie, watching the musicians set up the glossy-black piano and shining harp, his own violin in a case at his feet. John couldn’t help the tiny smile that came over him at the sight of his friend.

 _Friend . . ._ For some reason, the word didn’t feel big enough for what they were. Not anymore. It was like he’d had all these feelings he’d been pushing down inside and refusing to think of, and now they were blowing up inside, coloring his thinking and refusing to be ignored.

He shook his head, trying not to think of it as he got dressed in his new suit, smoothing out the forest-green velvet of his jacket and straightening his black tie, distantly glad it wasn’t a bow. And, well, maybe he didn’t particularly care for Stephen’s insistence on controlling every tiny thing, but the suit _was_ nice, if way too warm for the midday California weather.

When he was ready, he left the guest room, ducking around the other guests and workers until he was in the kitchen . . . which was filled to the brim with people. Course.

He managed to pass by the others to get to the fridge, struggling to get out a half-full bag of grapes and a pitcher of iced tea. Far from his first choice, but it would have to do if he didn’t want to risk sticking around and being ripped apart. He snuck out to one of the _many_ balconies that decorated the mansion, closing the door behind him before he noticed the other person standing there.

“Oh.” He looked at Tony Stark, who was leaning over the edge of the balcony and drinking from something that was _probably_ a smoothie, even though it was green. “Sorry, didn’t realize you were out here. I’ll go—”

“No, it’s fine. Just had to get away from . . .” He gestured vaguely at the door. “ _That_.”

John nodded, looking around. Even out here they couldn’t escape the noise of the house, although it was somewhat masked by the ocean. “Yeah. It’s kind of a mess in there.” He sat down on one of the two chairs that were outside, looking at Tony. He was wearing a deep-burgundy suit made of a slightly shiny material, with a black shirt and tie. His hair had probably been styled at one point, but now it looked like he’d been running his hands through it. “You look . . . good. Ready, I mean.”

“Don’t flatter me too much, I’m a taken man.” He started to smile before stopping suddenly, stress overtaking his face for a moment. “Can’t wait for all this to be over. I should’ve told Stephen I wanted to elope.”

John chuckled, thinking of the night before. “You know, I think he might agree with you.”

“Unlikely, but sure.” He took his jacket off and slung it over the free chair, stretching his arms. “Well, good advice for you and Curlylocks, at least. Big weddings are _not_ worth it.”

John almost choked on a grape.

“What, too soon?”

“No, it’s just . . . Sherlock and I . . .” He waved his hand around, struggling to put his thoughts into words. “He doesn’t think of me that way.” He didn’t say that he didn’t like Sherlock. He didn’t know anymore.

Tony smiled. “Piece of advice. Obviously Sherlock acts like he doesn't care. This family puts up walls like they have the secret to world peace and the cure for cancer in their heads — which, come to think of it, they might. But once you get past those walls . . . there's nothing more worth it in the world.” He paused, tilting his head. “Fuck, I should put that in my vows.” A beat passed. “I should write my vows.”

* * *

The wedding was scheduled for sunset and, against all odds, happened on time. The courtyard was decorated with white flowers, dusty-green ivy and leaves, and gold accents in the form of centerpieces, candle holders, and hanging terrariums. White candles in a variety of shapes and sizes cast soft light over the guests. Stephen and Tony met in the middle of over two hundred people, the doctor wearing a midnight-blue suit with a matching tie and white shirt. Soft notes of music sounded, Sherlock’s eyes closed as he drew his bow over the violin, Donna peacefully strumming her harp and Victor dutifully playing the piano.

Tony reached out and took Stephen’s hand in his, grinning. “Hey.”

Stephen allowed the tiniest smile to overtake him, seeming suddenly shy now that his emotions were on view for everyone to see.

Rhodey was in his dress uniform as their officiant and he began talking then. There was nothing spectacular or unusual about the ceremony, but between the music, the vibrant pink and orange sunset, the glinting decorations, and the obvious affection between the happy couple . . . well, it would make anyone a romantic.

Tony slipped a simple silver band onto Stephen’s ring finger, joining it with his emerald-cut engagement ring, as he recited his vows. “I promise to honor and care for you, and love you like I’ve never loved anyone else. And even though neither of us are easy people to get along with, I know it will be worth it, because . . . there’s nothing better than this. I’ve never felt anything like it. And I want to share this love with you, always.”

John squinted a bit when he said ‘worth it’, but otherwise sat smiling, close enough to the front that he could see them clearly. His eyes kept going to Sherlock against his will, tracking the changing light over his cheekbones and shining blue-green-grey eyes. He wondered what it would be like to be up on an altar with him, in front of people who cared about them, joined together like that.

Stephen held Tony’s calloused hand up, putting the ring on as he spoke. “Tony, I promise to defend and stand with you, and love you even when it’s hard. Because you are . . . so brilliant, in ways you don’t even know. And being with you is wonderful in ways I didn’t even know existed. And I never want it to end. Which is why I’m here, I guess.”

The guests chuckled politely.

The ceremony was sealed with a kiss and a cheer. Everyone stood and threw white flower petals and green leaves as they walked down the aisle, hand-in-hand, grinning as the sun dipped below the horizon and turned the sky dark.

* * *

“Beautiful wedding,” John said, handing Sherlock a glass of champagne as he leaned against the wall next to his friend. Tony and Stephen were cutting the cake on the other side of the courtyard, surrounded by people and leaving John and Sherlock in relative solitude as they watched.

Sherlock shrugged, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Probably, yes.”

They stood in silence for a moment, neither looking at the other. Then they looked down and at each other, speaking at the same time before freezing.

Sherlock stared at him, actually seeming to struggle to speak for a moment. When he spoke, he was quiet. “I disagree.”

John frowned. “Sorry? About what?”

“That you’re ordinary. You’re not. You’re one of the most spectacular people I’ve ever met.”

John ducked his head, cheeks warming. “Oh.” He smiled at Sherlock, who tentatively returned the gesture. “We should talk. When we get home.”

John leaned back against the tree again, feeling Sherlock’s shoulder against him. He smiled when his hand brushed against Sherlock’s.


End file.
